


Rebirth

by Mer_des_Miroirs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mer_des_Miroirs/pseuds/Mer_des_Miroirs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King is dead, long live the King!</p><p>Harry and Tom, two orphans. Similar yet so different, for theirs is the song of Ice and Fire. </p><p>A sketch within the Asoiaf universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I applied “Harry Potter” to “Game of Thrones”, it would go along these lines, patterns, mythologies. 
> 
> I am currently reading the "Asoiaf" books, hence this sketch. It covers most of my ideas so far. 
> 
> It might be continued, provided I have inspiration. I still have over three books left... so^^

Seasons changed, yet the High King sat on the Silver Throne.

He came a great shadow from beyond the Narrow Sea, a single entity to escape the Doom of Valyria. He was darkness and fire, taking offerings in blood and tears, as he swept over the plains of Westeros, its gardens and mountains, all up to the great white Wall

High King he was called by day, Witch-king behind the closed doors in raspy whispers. Alone he came, the tall man in a black cloak, covering him from white toes to head, only red eyes glisten. And he wielded a power as terrible as miraculous, for in a movement of long spidery fingers he forced armies to his knees, and all Lords of the Seven Kingdoms into servitude.

There was a summer and a winter, the High King ruled from King’s Landing, betimes with justice and ingenuity, betimes with cruel amusement. Other days he let the reigns fall loose, watched the initially coy play of powers bubble and burn, squashed the rebellions; he routinely sought after diversity.

He was the King, who ruled for hundreds of years, as eternal as the world itself, people said. A living God next to all Gods Old and New; and invariable.

It was another time after His Grace has secluded himself within royal library, musing over tomes with crumbling pages for days and weeks, that an announcement excited the Realm – the High King desired to wed a Lady of flesh and blood. He chose Princess Bellatrix Black of Dorne, the eldest of three and the only daughter; she - renowned for her bold beauty and vigour – not unlike her ancestor Nymeria, the warrior queen. There never was a happier bride, nor more devoted one. And if there was one thing to darken the royal marriage, it was the absence of children it bore.

***

It was a week after Lord Severus Prince succeeded his late father that he thought to amuse himself by visiting the capital city with its balls and shopping facilities. With him rode Lady Lily Evans, the ward of the House Prince - as her father was not only one of the Princes’ bannermen, holding the rich territories to the eastern borders; Lord Evans also sought to strengthen his influence by offering young, precious Lily a bride to the Potters; an agreement his own liege Lord disliked sufficiently to evoke a series of disputes with the result of the child being fostered at Storm’s End in order to learn love and loyalty for her true Lord’s family.

Lord Severus Prince certainly learnt to cherish and love Lady Lily, as did King’s Landing.

As did the High King, for he paid a surprising amount of attention to hair red, green eyes, asking Lily to walk with him the castle’s gardens and library.

A strange vision – the creature all in black, dark creature, sliding next to the young woman fearless and lovely. Lord Severus, albeit unable to prevent the first meeting, he took it to himself to prematurely end the courtly pleasantries by going home. Three weeks passed until Lady Lily vanished from the Godswood, where it was her habit to relax in the afternoon.

What came, was the most unlikely alliance between the Houses Prince and Potter and - by extension – Ser Albus Dumbledore and the red-haired Weasleys to fight the undisputed ruler of the Seven Kingdoms for the possession of one Lady Lily.

What began as a hopeless endeavour, the rebellion lasted for a year and a day. Rather than overcome his enemies with inhumane power, the High King summoned what was left of his loyal subjects – the Blacks and Malfoys, Greengrasses and Lestranges - and played war.   

Step for step the rebels succeeded, but it was not before House Malfoy turned on the Witch-King, forcing him to flee the King’s Landing and attend the battles in person; not before James Potter joined his sword with the King’s, he knew the rumours affirmed.

The King was dead-on with sword and agile – for someone who was never seen to use such a weapon before. Then, there was occasional clumsiness, as if the High King had a sudden difficulty to steer his body. His true weapon, magic, he called not. The rumour had – he could not. The King was dying, the rumour had.

The King was dead, as James Potter pierced his chest with his sword, the King was wind and ashes.

The King lived, as James Potter sat on the Silver Throne, mourning his Lady Lily.

***

Lord Severus Prince was not very good at keeping his promise to his late sweetheart, extracted in a far away tower on a bed of blood. He could not claim the child for his own - would not see the boy at his table and in his arms.

The child lived.

It should be enough.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Houses for this AU are as follows:
> 
> Dorne: Black
> 
> The Reach: Potter
> 
> Stormlands: Prince
> 
> Westerlands: Malfoy
> 
> Riverlands: Weasley
> 
> The Eyrie: Lestrange
> 
> The North: Greengrass
> 
> Their affiliations change correspondingly…


	2. Chapter 2

Vernon Dursley was an ambitious man and not very kind. Offering his roof to a sick knight and a babe, Vernon hoped for a reward as great as the rivers of Westeros.

As time passed and Usurper sat the Silver Throne, Vernon Dursley rewarded himself by having the Witch-King’s only heir, the boy starved and beaten, to serve the merchant’s every whim with a forced obedience. The lower the young prince fell, the dirtier his hair and clothes and bloodier his hands, the higher his master soared in his self-appreciation.

See! Hear! A mere merchant commands the royal blood!

Too bad, Vernon Dursley was too much a coward to actually reveal the boy’s identity.

***

Tom Riddle hid whenever steps approached him. The castle walls sang to him of passages lost and forgotten. He would slip between solid stones, sleep in a dark alcove, sneak in the castle’s library. He favoured people of ink and paper - not those real ones with eyes hungry and gleeful.

Riddle was not even a proper bastard’s name.

The cook and the washerwomen and the stable boys, everyone loved to point out the similarities in his appearance and such of his supposed Sire. Pale skin to hardly see the day’s light… for one.

It was also obvious that his Sire hated him - as if some foolishness from his youth – and being the good, loyal subjects… everyone hated Tom.

Calling him “Lord Riddle”, mocking him, watching his every misstep…

Attacking him several to one, proclaiming it a fair fight, because even a filthy bastard should count for five of the smallfolk boys?!

It hurt.

Tom Riddle hated everyone.

Tom Riddle hid in a dark alcove, tall for his age, gaunt, chewing a piece of bread he stole from the Kitchens. Reading an ancient tome he lent from the library, freezing in his tattered clothes, Tom burnt a candle that once was in his Sire’s room.

Life was as usual.

***

Grand Maester Dumbledore was a patient man. He saw many a thing, knew many a heart, and he smelt opportunities, he laid plans.

“Flee!” he urged Sirius Black, “Flee to the Free Cities! If you want be of help, flee!”

Albus smiled benevolently, finger-combed his beard, and set to the task of finding the young Draco.

***

The Black Soldier came one night asking for thugs and volunteers. Someone cut half his nose and an ear.

“The High King always provided for the Wall!” the old man raged at the Storm Lord’s disinterest. “He sent men from his household and food from his table. He knew of the coming winter!”

“The High King, you say?” the Lord’s face was overcome by a sardonic smile.

He called for the boy then, who could be his son, but was not. It was the most awful thing. The similarities between them. And the differences. They ate into Lord Prince’s mind, maddening him forevermore. Not his son.

The boy had to go.

Forgive me, Lily.

“I shall give you a King!”

***

The man had ragged black hair and his armour had seen better days. “Hey” the man called to Harry “Hey, hey!”

Harry thought it wise to hasten his pace. He was too shabby to really attract attention, his skin in shades of blue, yellow and dirt, his lip split and eyes – two holes of atrocious green, yet you never knew, not in the streets of Pentos.

“Hey” the man called “You must be Hadrian! You must! Gods, have you grown!”

Harry began to run, careful not to drop the purchased ale. The stableman would not like it, if his drink were to wet the streets.

“Hadrian! Wait!” the man struggled to keep up with him, yet if there was anything Harry was good at, it was to run, literally, for his life.

***

Tom did not quite appreciate his shiny new castle forged armour and long sword and black horse, as it belonged to “Lord Riddle”, a mockery he was now wont to hear from the watchmen’s lips.

Not that Tom cared. Those were illiterate, vulgar individuals, awful with sword and slow in learning. Why else was Tom able to beat any of them – men older, heavier and bigger – where he himself first swung his sword at the Castle Black?

Not that they believed, of course. For the recruits of Night Watch, Tom was a rich pampered bastard, having practiced with a master of arms from infancy; refusing food.

Tom hid on the Wall, drawing wall duty with an aptness of a magician. It was freezing and nothing to fight him over. Tom walked the ice, watching the sleeping wood and far away mountains. And he wanted.

He wanted.

***

On the closer inspection, the man had grey eyes with a glint of desperation. The man had a coin or two, to persuade the house guards – two big oafs coming after their master – to put Harry in one room with him and close the door.

They chose a room without windows.

Desperation spread.

Harry stood in the far corner, watching the room, preparing to fight.

The man raised his hands as if trying to placate Harry. “Do not you know me? I am your uncle Sirius. But of course you don’t know me… “

“You were still in your mother’s belly the last time I saw you…”

Harry narrowed his eyes – “Were you one of my mother’s customers? Was it not enough? Have you come after me now?”

The man looked visibly confused, yet Harry cried, cried out – “I am not a whore!”

***

He graduated with a poacher from the North. The man believed in the Old Gods, and was to take his oath outside. Tom recognised it for a chance it was – “And me, Sire! Me! We are in the North and these are the Gods from the North. I would rather They watch over me!”

The commander gave Tom a sullen look, yet did not protest otherwise.

For the first time in his life Tom breathed free, old icy air filling his lungs, hand reaching out to the weirwood face.

I am not ready to forsake this freedom, laughed Tom.

“I choose not to join the Night Watch. I choose to go.” Tom laughed, spurring his horse, fleeing into the dark cold forest.

“You can’t hold me back!”

***

“I am your uncle Sirius. Sirius Black” pleaded the foreign man. “And albeit your Lady mother and myself rarely saw eye to eye, I can assure you my daring sister, she has never lain with another man but your father… And as to your father…”

Despite himself, Harry had to listen. Even if the man only tried to catch him unaware with his pretty lies, it was something Harry longed to hear for his whole life. That his parents were something, something beautiful, and not just a drunkard and a whore as Master Dursley insisted. That he, Harry, was not a nothing. That he has a family.

And how wondrous Sirius Black’s tale was!

***

Tom raced through the haunted wood, his destrier gaining speed with every passing branch of leafs bloody on a white trunk. Not a cry was left of the pursuit. They pride themselves as crows, but Tom is shadow.

Shadows dance in his veins with a ferocity of untouched world.

***

Harry’s mother was a princess, Sirius insists, and the heiress to Dorne, an exotic place where women hold the same power as men – at least within the ruling family. Then she married Harry’s father – the greatest wizard who ever lived.

Then they had Hadrian, but not quite, because Harry’s father was killed in a rebellion and his mother died of childbed fever, and someone fled with the crown prince… and here we are.

“You know, Sirius, to lie better, you should make your stories less exaggerated. Call my father a fisherman and my mother a milkmaid – and I believe you. Make him a hedge knight and I might consider it. But a princess and…”

“The High-King to rule all of Westeros, these are your parents. I swear it on my honour as Black.

And think, Hadrian… Harry… Have you never done something strange before? Something inexplicable? For you have His blood in your veins… Valyrian blood!”

***

Tom reached the very edge of the Weirwood, as he met his first Wildlings. They were three bearly men with a clear vision as to Tom’s horse, weapons and clothes.

Tom was not afraid. He was drunk on the dancing leaves and sweet snow.

They looked at each other. Tom’s lip curled. A man screamed.

***

Things happened in Harry’s life to make it strange. Several times he found himself on a roof or another street altogether, when being chased by the house-guards, the cook, the old creeps…

Sometimes food appeared, just because Harry was very hungry and could not think of anything else…

His hair was always of the same shape and length…

His wounds healed abnormally fast, as if insisting on another “lesson”…

An angry cry pierced through Harry’s contemplations, as Vernon Dursley himself stormed the room.

***

“Greetings, the Cold Ones” Tom dismounted from his horse and bowed to the newcomers lean and ice-blue. “I was looking for you.”

An Other laughed a blood-curling scream, Tom laughed with him.

“Teach me,” Tom said. “Teach me the song of ice and dark and death.”

“In return,” Tom said, “I am offering you three lives”.

***

Vernon Dursley stood no chance against Sirius Black, as mad grey eyes seized the merchant’s huge belly and wobbly legs. “What have you done with my nephew?” Black accused.

“I saved the wretched boy’s life, you ungrateful moron. Here in my house, he was well-hidden from the Usurper” bawled Dursley. “We fed the babe and dressed him and gave him a roof over his head, little good it did…”

“The Usurper is dead” screamed Black. “And I am taking young Harry with me.”

***

Wildlings were no cravens, nor above assaulting you in the back. Tom fell to the left, deftly avoiding the first arrow. He did not wait for the second. The power blazed in him ever since Tom entered the Haunted Forest. It boiled his blood and left his body a shadow, light as a cloak, sharp as Valyrian steel.

Ere the second arrow flew, the archer was pierced with a thousand needles, swirling a hurricane. The archer and his friend next to him were but areas of torn meat, crackled bone and sparkling blood.

The third man pressed his back to a Weirwood. Not able to decide if he dares to fight or flee, the Wildling looked at Tom. At skin white as snow, hair – a bloody night, lips – a vicious scarlet. Eyes no longer a forest green, but red, red and burning.

White – red – red… the faces of Weirwood…

“The Old God!” cried the man. “I pray to you, mercy. Mercy…!”

The Old God. Tom tasted the name on his tongue. It was… his name. Tom always knew he was special, not like others. And now, after fifteen long years of neglect and misery Tom had a proof. The proof.

“You displeased me” Tom cooed almost gently. “You assaulted your God…”

Power flowed from the Weirwood into Tom and back, back to the Old tree. Sweet power. It shook white branches and roots from an endless sleep. They crept across the Wildling’s arms and legs and wrecked his throat and his heart, drinking, drinking hot blood.

“It was your sacrifice” laughed the Other.

“My sacrifice” agreed Tom, smelling the red snow, mounting his horse and leaving with the children of ice into the heart of Winter.

***

“James Potter was a good man, honourable knight, a fine King. I loved him like a brother. I fought with him for sweet Lily – against my own family even. I was his Hand… before the Malfoys killed him, putting the blame on me. As if I would ever… Me…”

Sirius brought Harry and what little Harry owned into a run-down tavern. “Sorry for the luxuries” Sirius grinned “I seem to have left most of my income overseas”.

Sirius ordered Harry a cup of sweet mead. Sirius finished his tale. Harry was drunk on fabulous and unexpected.

“But what… What do you want from me?”

“Hadrian,” Sirius spoke solemnly “You are the rightful heir to the Silver Throne, not the Usurpers Malfoys who first betrayed your father and now James. You! You alone can avenge your parents, my James! You can give Westeros justice and peace. You alone, Harry!”

“But…” It was not like he wanted to disappoint Uncle Sirius, yet Harry was just Harry, nothing special, a penniless orphan like too many on the streets…

“No, Harry, listen. You are the blood of the Witch-King. You are the blood of shadows. The only thing we need is to unlock your powers – and I have just the idea, where to find you a right teacher”.      


End file.
